


Once Upon a Time in New York City

by Audrey_Lynne



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bedside Vigils, Drama, Emotional Trauma, Exchange students, F/M, Friendship, Ghosts of the Past - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Injury Recovery, Les Amis Take Manhattan, Lots of hugs and hand-holding, Love, M/M, Multi, New York City, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stupid adorable French boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:45:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Audrey_Lynne/pseuds/Audrey_Lynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras, Grantaire, and Marius are exchange students in New York City.  Grantaire's been enjoying himself...at least until Marius fell in love and he had to hear about it.  But this is Les Mis, and there is always drama, heartbreak, and angst to follow.  There are also amazing friends who won't hesitate to cross an ocean for one of their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Once Upon a Time in New York City

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all! :) This story was previously posted (chapters 1-8) on Fanfiction.net, but I really, really wanted to do some revising to it so a move here seemed a good way to go about it. It was my first in the fandom and I've learned a lot and changed my ideas on characterizations since then. I have 8 chapters currently complete, and am working on more...I'll upload a bit at a time until the original 8 are up :)

The rest of the students in their building spent hours debating whether Enjolras was gay or simply French, and found it hysterical. Enjolras didn't understand; he was both and the whole debate made no sense to him. Grantaire thought it was even funnier than most of the perpetrators.

 

A cynical art student, a overly passionate law student, and a totally awkward student of everything. Marius had changed majors so many times, Grantaire had lost track of what he was doing now. Nor did Grantaire much actually care. They'd gotten themselves into this exchange program, a full year in New York City, and it was actually kind of nice. Sure, the whole of Les Amis were briefly separated, but Skype was a wonderful invention. And Courfeyrac had a suspicious way of being able to get most of them to various academic conferences in the New York area. Everyone had long since questioning his connections. Besides, Enjolras had got it in his head that he could save America from itself and Grantaire found it entertaining to watch. He was grateful New York had at least legalized same-sex marriage; he personally didn't care what anyone thought of him and his boyfriend, but Enjolras probably wouldn't have shut up about it otherwise.

 

It was well-known that Grantaire refused to leave his bed before eleven am, except in cases of extreme emergency. He scheduled his classes to accommodate this requirement; he would have rather taken an evening course than have to stifle homicidal, hungover urges when everyone in the morning class turned to him for expert advice on Monet simply because was French. In New York, Grantaire had been able to justify his schedule to Enjolras – not that this had ever stopped him before, but it made life easier. There seemed to be a code among serious artists that 8:00 only came once a day and that was the way it should be. Grantaire was totally fine with this.

 

So, all in all, the States weren't half bad. Well, they wouldn't have been if Marius-Fucking-Pontmercy hadn't found some cute blonde thing at the student union. Her adoptive father had brought her to America when she was young, something about injustice, blah, blah, blah. And she was from _Paris originally._ Marius had been less than impressed when Grantaire reminded him that _so were they_. But he was in love with this French-American expatriate, whatever term he was using to romanticize her this week, and Grantaire usually got stuck listening to it, because dearest Cosette worked 8-4 at a preschool and most of Marius' classes this quarter were in the late morning to afternoon. Enjolras was usually up and out by nine at the latest. And somehow, for some reason, Marius took this as an invitation to tell Grantaire _all about everything,_ standing in the bedroom door, which Enjolras always forgot to close. Grantaire was beginning to wonder if it was a passive-aggressive move on his lover's part, because he _knew_ Marius took an open door as an invitation.

 

So another morning and yet again Grantaire had a pillow over his head, groaning at Marius' cheerful, " _Bonjour_!" He sounded exactly like he belonged in the opening number of _Beauty and the Beast_ – a film which most of Les Amis had been banned from watching in the company of Americans, because they felt the need to point out the historical inaccuracies. Enjolras would remind everyone that, as the film took place before the French Revolution, it probably wasn't going to end well for Belle and Prince Adam. Grantaire loved to argue that the clearly English butler could have gotten them passage out of France when the shit hit the fan, or maybe Belle and Adam would have been sympathetic leaders, because she'd been a peasant. And by that time, they were generally the only ones left in the room.

 

Grantaire considered lobbing an empty wine bottle toward the doorway, but the last time he'd done that, he'd hit something other than Marius and it had ended with Enjolras' exasperated, _"This is why we can't have nice things, Ranier!"_ He always used Grantaire's first name when he was really annoyed. Sometimes, in tender moments, he recalled the meaning and wondered why Grantaire hated it so much.

 

_"But it means 'strong counselor,' 'Taire. That's rather nice, don't you think?"_

 

_Grantaire scoffed. "And a counselor I most certainly am not. You couldn't pay me enough to sit around listening to people whine about their issues."_

 

But now Grantaire was listening to Marius go _on and on_ about how the so-perfect children that so-perfect Cosette worked with were asking him when they were going to get married and _wasn't it so cute_. And Grantaire liked children, but it made him miss Gavroche, and wonder what the kid was going to be like after a year away, and he had very specifically set out on a path of high-functioning alcoholism in order to avoid uncomfortable feelings.

 

"They're so adorable," Marius gushed.

 

"I'm sure they are," Grantaire muttered, because _"For fuck's sake, let me sleep,"_ would have had Marius acting like a kicked puppy the rest of the week.

 

"She's so wonderful with children. I'm sure she'll be a great mother."

 

"Yes, I'm sure." Grantaire peered at the clock. Still another hour before Marius needed to leave for class. But this time he had an ace up his sleeve, a rare occasion. Enjolras had out extremely late with a social justice fundraiser, and this was the one morning a week he didn't have anything scheduled. Usually, he still got up and out, but today, he was catching up on his sleep, buried beneath the comforter. This time, he'd left the door open on his way _in._ And since Grantaire slept on the side of the bed closer to the door, he was pretty sure Marius had only seen him and assumed that Enjolras was out.

 

Grantaire smiled and nudged Enjolras with his knee. "Morning, _ange_."

 

Marius looked surprised as Enjolras sleepily poked his head out from under the covers, blond curls a mess. "Oh, I..."

 

"Have fun with Cosette today," Grantaire called, flashing Marius his best shit-eating grin. "If you could close the door on your way out, I'm going to fuck my boyfriend senseless. Unless you'd like to watch.”

 

"Ah, no, that's...quite all right." Marius quickly retreated, closing the door firmly.

 

Enjolras blinked blearily. "I shouldn't be in bed this late."

 

Grantaire pressed him back against the mattress, kissing him firmly. "Oh, yes you should.”

 

Enjolras didn't even try to resist.

 


	2. Artist, Interrupted

A thick blanket of snow had covered the East Coast overnight, and "snow day" meant one thing to Grantaire – if it was Tuesday, he didn't have to put up with that idiot of an art history professor who believe that artist couldn't live without passion for everything the world around them. Grantaire had passion for exactly three things: Enjolras, his friends, and alcohol, in that order. Sometimes rearranged when Enjolras was being particularly exasperating. That was enough for him.

 

Despite the fact that classes were canceled, Enjolras had been out the door early, something about helping a Lower East Side homeless shelter hand out coats. That was Enjolras, always saving the world. Marius was off to...wherever he went when he wasn't in class or the apartment. Grantaire cared about the guy, but he was definitely not Pontmercy's keeper. That was Courfeyrac's job when he was around.

 

Grantaire had assumed Marius was off with Cosette, as the preschool she worked for was closed as well, but that notion was dispelled when Cosette Valjean herself showed up at door. Grantaire had never met her, and despite listening to Marius go on about her for hours, had never developed an opinion on the woman one way or another. He only recognized her because she was fairly popular on campus, and Marius had shoved a picture or two into Grantaire's line of sight.

 

Grantaire opened the door, curious as to how she'd found the flat. Marius never brought her by – he'd assured them needlessly that it had nothing to do with Grantaire and Enjolras' status as a couple, because Cosette was _not remotely_ homophobic. Grantaire didn't care why she hadn't been over; they really had nothing to show off. Plus, if they'd been expecting company, he'd have probably been asked to dismantle his wine bottle pyramid, which he rather liked. "Marius isn't here." He wasn't trying to be rude, but there was no reason to waste the girl's time.

 

"I know." Cosette smiled. "Last I saw him, he was having a snowball fight with the chess club in front of the library."

 

"Okay." So if she had known Marius wasn't home, why was she there? "Can I help you?"

 

Cosette shrugged. "I've been curious to meet you. Marius talks about his friends a lot; he's very fond of you all. I've been to a few campus events with Enjolras, but you seem to keep very much to yourself, Monsieur Grantaire."

 

Grantaire snorted. She was immaculately dressed, every piece of her winter clothes coordinating. He was wearing his favorite sweatpants and painting shirt and he hadn't yet bothered to run a comb through his hair. They must have been quite the sight together. "You didn't have to bother yourself. If you wanted to meet me, you could have asked." Unless Marius was ashamed of him? It was always a possibility, Grantaire supposed. He stepped back from the door, figuring he should invite her in. "The maid hasn't been in yet; move what you need to." They didn't have a maid, but it at least sounded better than, _"I just woke up and I have no desire to clean right now."_

 

Cosette smiled shyly. "I suppose you know who I am, based on your reaction, but maybe we should make it official. I'm Cosette Valjean."

 

Grantaire chuckled. "Yes, daughter of the great Jean Valjean, defender of the poor."

 

"You've met my father?" she asked, looking curious.

 

"Probably." Grantaire had been dragged along as Enjolras' arm candy to a few events; he was rarely sober enough to remember everyone he met, but Enjolras described Valjean as champion of the downtrodden. Enjolras didn't really care about anyone else's romances but his own – and even then, the plight of the people took precedence – but once he'd learned who Cosette's father was, he'd been impressed. "Anyway, I'm Grantaire."

 

Cosette offered her hand for him to shake and he accepted. She didn't seem bothered that there were dried splotches of paint decorating his hands. "Do you and Enjolras have first names or is it just some style of yours?"

 

"Enjolras' name is Gabriel." Grantaire shrugged. "No one ever uses it, but it exists. I suppose they'll slap it on a Nobel Peace Prize someday. Me, I'm an artist. We don't need first names."

 

Cosette seemed to accept that, even if she smiled a little. Her eyes trailed to the wine bottle pyramid. "That's a bit classier than I've seen in most college apartments. Usually they just stick to beer cans."

 

Grantaire snorted. "That would require me to actually _drink_ American beer. I would have gone for a bit more variety, but the cap of the _Nuvo_ bottles makes them very hard to balance." It was an import Grantaire had developed a taste for, part French champagne and part vodka. He wasn't even bothered by the fact that it was pink and came in an overly stylish bottle obviously meant to appeal to women. It tasted good and if anyone tried to call his sexuality into question...well, he went to bed every night with a man, so what was there to question, really? "So, which was it? You didn't want to spoil your boyfriend's snowball fight by dragging him home or he didn't want you to meet me?" He had no problem being blunt.

 

"Our schedules don't really match," Cosette replied. "Marius actually seemed very eager to introduce us – but you seem to keep pretty busy."

 

It was true; Grantaire did like to spend a few hours lounging about after his evening classes, drinking with other artists and bohemian types and smoking the occasional joint. "You can usually find me in the Village."

 

"That doesn't surprise me." As an artist, Grantaire could appreciate a woman's beauty without feeling any attraction to her, and Cosette was certainly a beautiful woman. She didn't back down in the face of his sarcasm and general lack of interest, and that scored her a few points. Plus, now that they'd met, maybe Marius would relax a bit. Grantaire vaguely recalled that Cosette had been in an abusive, alcoholic foster home when she'd met her father, and while Grantaire was an extremely mellow drunk, he'd worried a bit that Marius didn't want his dearest to know one of his best friends was a shameless boozer.

 

Suddenly a bit conscious of Cosette's comfort, Grantaire glanced at the other wine bottles around – those not in the pyramid. There were nearly enough to start another, and she caught him looking. "Oh, don't worry about that. Marius told me – he can be a little overprotective. I don't mind. Everyone's seen you in the campus bar; we know you wouldn't hurt a fly unless you were defending someone's honor."

 

 _So, "You're an alcoholic, but you're a friendly-type alcoholic,"_ Grantaire thought. _Apt enough._ He shrugged. "A glass of wine is better than a man most days – it doesn't talk back, doesn't tell you to stop drinking it, and when it's gone, you feel better."

 

Cosette laughed, then turned to her phone as it beeped. "Oh, that's my roommate. I promised her I'd help her unpack some boxes she had shipped from home." She extended hand again and Grantaire shook it. "It was lovely meeting you. Hopefully I'll see you again soon."

 

Grantaire bowed his head dramatically. " _Enchante, mademoiselle._ " Art students were allowed to be outrageous, even if some felt he took that privilege to extremes.

 

Cosette waved cheerfully on her way out. " _Bon apres-midi_!" Most other women, that would have just seemed pretentious, but she got away with it because of her heritage – and, technically, she was responding in kind.

 

Grantaire shrugged and put the chair back on the door after Cosette left, settling back down with his latest painting and a Mozart CD playing in the background. He lost track of time, absorbed in his art, but somewhere in the middle of the _Turkish March_ , there was a knock on the door. Grantaire sighed and almost considered pretending he wasn't home, but the music was a dead giveaway and the knocking was impatient. He tucked the paint brush in his hand behind one ear – he'd just rinsed it – and glanced through the peephole, then laughed in delight and opened the door. "Well, look what the cat's dragged in. What the hell are you doing here?"

 

Joly burst inside, grabbing Grantaire in a hug. "You seem remarkably sober."

 

Grantaire shrugged. "The day is young." He always loved any chance to see any of the other Amis, but they usually called in advance. "What brings you across the pond?"

 

"Hospital in-service program," Joly explained. "Two weeks here, learning how they do things. I wasn't going to go – all that time in an airplane, circulating the same air everyone else breathes; no thank you. But Louis Milhaud had a family emergency and Dr. Allende sent me. So here I am!"

 

Grantaire grinned. "I'd say this calls for a drink."

 

"That doesn't surprise me, coming from you." Joly grinned. "But I do think I'll take advantage. Where have Marius and Enjolras gotten off to? There's a foot of snow out there; my flight had to circle until they could clear the tarmac."

 

Grantaire moved into the kitchen, grabbing two coffee mugs and a bottle of _Nuvo_ , since it was open. No one had ever accused him of being remotely bourgeoisie. "Here, let's drink. To friendship."

 

"That's as good a reason as any." Joly snorted, though he didn't hesitate to accept the offering. "Pink champagne? Really, R?"

 

"Shush, there's vodka mixed in there." Grantaire grinned and the two retired to the futon in the living room with their drinks. "And, yes, I'm fully aware we ship this stuff stateside we don't have to drink it, but it's better than grocery store wine. These Americans have a very strange definition of what constitutes acceptable alcohol.” He handed Joly a mug. “So, how've you been? Come down with anything interesting lately?”

 

"Been lucky so far," Joly said, "but I made sure to load up on vitamins and immune system boosters during that flight. Speaking of that, I should probably shower. Just to be safe.”

 

Grantaire nodded toward the bathroom with his head. "First door on your left."

 

"But my clothes are back at the hotel," Joly protested. "I mean, not that I don't enjoy your company, but..."

 

"But, but," Grantaire teased. He disappeared into his bedroom, returning with a set of Enjolras' clothes. "Here, Enj's stuff ought to fit you. You're both tall and skinny. It'll make you feel better if you clean up.”

 

It seemed an acceptable solution, and Grantaire returned to painting as Joly disappeared to shower. He'd be in there awhile, Grantaire knew from experience. He sometimes wondered how Joly even managed to get through the first few years of medical school with his hypochondria. But they all had their quirks.

 

Grantaire's phone buzzed – a text from Marius that he was going out with Cosette. No surprise. Grantaire considered telling him about Joly, but Marius would come bounding back Cosette in tow and Grantaire wanted a little guy time first. He didn't dislike Cosette – she seemed like a perfectly nice girl – but she wasn't one of the gang, at least not yet. Besides, Marius acted like a kid at Christmas when presented with a pleasant was surprise, so that would be fun when he got home.

 

Enjolras arrived home while Joly was still in the shower. Grantaire stood to greet him with a kiss on the cheek. "So, save the world yet?"

 

"No, but we certainly made sure a few people were warmer." Enjolras returned the kiss, then moved to sit down with Grantaire on the futon. "Two cups? You know I don't like the taste of that stuff."

 

"Not for you." Grantaire shrugged. "I had company."

 

"Yes, I got a text from Marius – you've met his Cosette." Enjolras looked around the living room, a little disconcerted. "I'm sure she loved your bottle collection."

 

Grantaire grinned smugly. "Actually, she seemed to think it was a fine _objet d'art._ " He made sure his tone contained as much _"so there"_ as possible. He nuzzled Enjolras' neck. “Love you.”

 

Enjolras smiled, leaning his head so that Grantaire had better access. "Love you too _._ "

 

And that was when Joly chose to come out of the shower, wearing Enjolras' jeans and hoodie. He paused at the tender moment, but then carried on – it wasn't as if their relationship was a secret. "Enjolras!"

 

Enjolras jumped up, narrowly missing kneeing Grantaire in the groin. Grantaire recoiled reflexively, then stood up as Joly and Enjolras hugged. Enjolras grinned. "So, 'Taire, this is your company?"

 

"Eh, he's as good as any." Grantaire shrugged. "Sorry about your clothes and all, but he just spent eight hours on a plane...”

 

Enjolras understood. "Say no more. It's all right." He sat back down, pulling Grantaire with him, and patted the empty space. "Come on, Joly, sit. I want to hear the latest from home."

 

Joly grinned. "Well, it's more of the usual, really. Which is good. Jehan's finding a publisher for his latest poetry anthology. Gavroche still gets into of trouble as quick as he gets out of it, though 'Ponine's been keeping a tighter leash on him lately...”


	3. Well, That Sucked

Evenings at Grantaire's favorite Greenwich Village cafe were always fun – it wasn't the Musain, but it would do. Some nights, he talked Enjolras into joining him; it wasn't hard get an audience for social justice in this crowd. Nor did they attract any attention when Grantaire crawled into his boyfriend's lap to steal a kiss or two. Enjolras was still a little uncomfortable with public displays of affection, but he was getting used to it. Besides, this was New York, where couples of any sort could be seen making out just about anywhere one turned.

 

This time, Grantaire was alone. Joly was working the evening shift at his internship; he got off at eleven. The hospital wasn't far from the Village, so Grantaire planned to swing by pick him up on the way home. He'd borrowed Marius' car for the purpose; it was more convenient than the subway.

 

When he was on his own, Grantaire often picked up a few bucks selling sketches. Poetry readings were especially good for picking up commissions; starry-eyed lovers jumped at chance to have a handmade memento of the night. Since he had the car, he couldn't drink too much – though he was sure he drove better drunk than most Manhattan residents did sober. But he sipped at a specialty cocktail, drawing lazy lines his sketchpad that might become something someday. The drink's recipe was a house secret, so he had no idea what was in it, but he suspected it would be easier to list what wasn't. And that was just the way Grantaire liked it. He always took precautions to make sure nothing was added to his drinks after the fact – a lesson learned the hard way, back Paris; it was another memory he drank to forget. But he was a regular here and he trusted the bar staff, so he let them surprise him with their concoctions entirely. _"As long as it's least 40 proof,"_ he always told them laughing. _"Anything less than that is just a waste of money."_ At least when paying Manhattan bar prices.

 

Usually, Grantaire helped close the place down, joining in drinking songs – and contests – with drunk Australian tourists from the hostel across the street. But tonight he had to get Joly, so he kept an eye on the time. He let his pencil wander across the sketchpad, lines becoming curls as the picture started to take shape – his favorite subject, Enjolras. Grantaire had never believed in love until he wandered into his favorite cafe one night and found a blond god of a student speaking to the crowd, who sat transfixed. It had taken long time and plenty of effort – and a little help from Courfeyrac and Jehan – but, finally, Grantaire had his moment alone with his idol. And there was no point in wasting time with words, so Grantaire had grabbed Enjolras and kissed him, ready to let go at the first sign of resistance...but there had been none. Enjolras had been surprised, but he had been the one to take things further, and the night had ended back in Enjolras' bedroom. Combeferre, who'd been sharing the flat with Enjolras at the time, had been happy to temporarily vacate the premises.

 

The exchange program had been Marius' idea, which Enjolras jumped on, eager to right the wrongs of the world from any location. Grantaire would have been perfectly content to stay in Paris, but the thought of a year away from Enjolras had convinced him. They'd worked together, pulled strings, and managed to get themselves assigned to the same rotation. If Les Amis were to be separated, it might as well have been done at one time. And, frankly, Grantaire would have taken a year off and found some way to afford moving to New York for a year before letting Enjolras go alone. He was the sun, the center of the universe, always drawing Grantaire to his side. Jehan found romance in the dysfunction of it, but that was Jehan. Always in love with love and human frailty – well, that and Courfeyrac.

 

Grantaire threw his supplies into his satchel and finished off his drink before heading out into the night. He'd learned the ins and outs of city parking. There was no way Grantaire paid full price, or any price, if he could avoid it. He had a friend a few blocks away who had a space that came with her apartment, but she didn't own a car, so she let him park there when he had the car in exchange for the occasional sketch. It was a perfect arrangement – because, really, who had the money to spend thirty dollars to park in a public garage?

 

The night wind nipped at Grantaire's ears, and he pulled his hood up as he walked back to the car. As he turned the corner, someone tried to grab his bag. He shook them off and held the bag close, scanning the area for possible makeshift weapons. Grantaire didn't go looking for fights, certainly not the way Bahorel did, but he'd been in more than a few and he could hold his own.

 

"Don't be stupid," a voice snarled from the shadows as a man stepped into the dim light. "Give me the bag, Mitch." His fingers were curled around something that looked like a knife.

 

Grantaire blinked, adopting the most innocent air he could. " _Pardon_?" Clearly, this was a case of mistaken identity, and Grantaire had no problem pretending not to speak English if helped him out of a jam. " _Je ne comprends pas._ "

 

The other man made a derogatory noise. "Oh, you think it's cute, speaking that nonsense now?"

 

Grantaire would have been insulted at the slight to his native tongue if he'd thought this thug's IQ was higher than that of a turnip. He took in his surroundings – and, seeing an opportunity, made a run for it. Under other circumstances, he'd have just handed over the bag. But tonight, it held more than his art supplies and money; he'd picked up something special for Enjolras . And his ID was in there, with his address, and there was no way he was just handing that over to a criminal. He had to protect Enjolras and Marius.

 

The man pursued, and Grantaire noted details as he dodged and weaved through the alleys, knowing the police would want a description. Caucasian male, late twenties, short and thin, dark hair, very little attention to personal hygiene. Well, maybe they didn't care about that last part. Grantaire had the disadvantage and he knew it; he didn't know these streets as well as his attacker. He ended up cornered in a dead-end alley, fumbling in his pocket for his phone. He could call 911 and leave the line open; they would track the signal. But he didn't have time for even that as the man closed in on him.

 

Grantaire raised his fists, ready to defend himself. He dodged the first blow thrown and managed to land one of his own. The thug shoved Grantaire against the brick wall behind him, causing him to hit his head. Grantaire was momentarily stunned, just long enough to stumble forward – and feel a sharp pain in his side. He clutched at the area, feeling blood as he tripped forward. He couldn't get enough air. He couldn't fight as his bag was snatched – but the strap of it was still over his shoulders, and so he was jerked along with it. Rather than untangle the two, the thug started to rifle through the bag. Grantaire couldn't see what he took. He had no strength to fight back; everything was reserved for trying to breathe. He felt himself being shoved roughly, kicked several times, and he heard the guy screaming at him to produce the meth. Freaking figured. Grantaire had experimented with many things in his time, but meth would never be one of them. To be attacked by a bum wanting alcohol would have been ironic, almost poetic. This just sucked.

 

 

* * *

 

Enjolras was settled on the futon with his laptop, working on a paper. Marius was slouched beside him, lost in a text conversation with Cosette. Enjolras distractedly grabbed his phone when it chimed with a text message.

 

_Courfeyrac: Fucking Jehan._

Enjolras frowned. He was not the go-to person for relationship problems. He sighed, hoping this wouldn't take too long. It was five-thirty in the morning in Paris, so something had either started early or gone late. _What'd he do?_

 

The response came quickly. _Nothing. I'm just fucking Jehan. Thought you should know._

 

Enjolras rolled his eyes and tucked the phone away. He considered replying, but...no, he wasn't going to give Courfeyrac the pleasure. When the phone chirped again, Enjolras sighed. He really wasn't in the mood for games; he had work to do. But it wasn't Courfeyrac.

 

_Joly: Have you heard from R?_

 

Enjolras sighed, deeper this time. _What, hasn't he picked you up?_ Grantaire was supposed to have gotten Joly a half hour ago, and despite the outer reputation Grantaire had tried cultivate, he was usually dependable when it came to his friends. He wouldn't have gotten drunk, knowing Joly was waiting on him.

 

_Joly: No. He's not answering his phone. I'm worried._

 

Enjolras was, too. Sure, Joly worried about everything, but this wasn't like Grantaire. He might have disappeared for hours at a stretch when he wanted to, but never when he had someone depending on him. Enjolras tried to call Grantaire as well, just to say he'd done it, but it flipped over to voicemail. He returned Joly's text. _I'm sure he's fine._ It was a lie.

 

Enjolras tried to remember where Grantaire was hanging out that evening; he'd mentioned it, but Enjolras was distracted with his paper. There were several places Grantaire frequented. Dammit, which one was it? Enjolras sighed, checking Facebook to see if Grantaire had checked in, as was his habit. And, perfect – he had, and clicking the link gave Enjolras the address and phone number.

 

Joly replied in the meantime. _Come on, Enj. You know this isn't his style._

 

It wasn't, but Enjolras didn't know what to say. He tried calling the cafe first; they confirmed that Grantaire had been there, but he'd left an hour ago. Which would have put him on schedule to get Joly. Enjolras frowned, steepling his fingers. Something wasn't right. He sent Joly a message. _I'll have Marius get you. Hang on._ "Marius."

 

Marius didn't respond, absorbed in his conversation with Cosette. Enjolras had no patience for this at the moment. He nudged his friend. "Marius, wake up."

 

Marius looked startled. "What's wrong today?" From Grantaire, that would have been a baited, sarcastic question, wondering what cause Enjolras was pursuing at the moment. But Enjolras knew Marius was just snapping back to the world that existed outside of Cosette.

 

"Something's going on." Enjolras reached for his coat. "Come on, we're taking a cab to your car."

 

Marius frowned. "'Taire has my car."

 

"I _know_." Enjolras would fill Marius in on the way; he didn't want to waste time. "He never got Joly. We need to find him."

 

"You don't think something's happened, do you?" Marius asked, looking worried.

 

"I don't know." Enjolras headed for the door and down the staircase to the street, Marius hurrying behind him. "We'll get your car." He did at least remember where Grantaire typically parked. "You'll go get Joly; I'll find Grantaire."

 

"What if the car isn't there?" Marius didn't look convinced as Enjolras flagged down a cab. "Do you think he's all right?"

 

"We'll deal with that when we come to it." Enjolras was on a mission now and nothing would stop him.

 

* * *

 

 

Marius' car had been right where Grantaire usually parked it, and Enjolras could tell Marius was reluctant to leave without knowing Grantaire was okay. But Enjolras hadn't become leader of the group for nothing, and Marius nodded and reluctantly left for the hospital to get Joly. Enjolras had tried to call Grantaire several times more, each time leaving a more stern message to return his call. He tried again, this time just calling Grantaire several choice names.

 

Enjolras walked through a dark alley – it made him a little uncomfortable, but it wasn't much worse than the slums of Paris. However, he was known as an ally in the slums of Paris. A blue nitrile glove caught the light, and Enjolras glanced at it absentmindedly, noting the discarded medical supply wrappers around it. Something had happened here, and that suggested to him he might not want to linger. There was blood, now that he looked for it, and Enjolras checked himself to make sure he hadn't stepped in any.

 

"Rich white boy like you better get on out of here," a voice scolded, approaching him. It was a haggard-looking old woman. "Police be coming."

 

Enjolras first thought was to protest that his financial status had nothing to do with anything at the moment, but that really wasn't important. He did wonder why the place hadn't been marked as a scene of investigation. "What happened? Did you see it?" Enjolras was not one for gut feelings, so he told himself his unease was just due to being out of place. He was only thinking of Grantaire because of the smell of stale alcohol coming off the woman. He kept telling himself that.

 

A squad car rolled up, siren screaming, and Enjolras jumped. He'd been arrested a time or two in his life and had no desire to repeat the experience. It wasn't his fault that law enforcement had a hare trigger when it came to protesters. The officer rolled his eyes, seeing the woman. "Get out of here, Marta; you'll disturb my crime scene." His eyes narrowed at Enjolras . "Who the hell are you?"

 

"I'm sorry; I was just looking for my friend." Enjolras began to back away. "I wasn't aware-"

 

"He's right, he just showed up," the woman – apparently named Marta – volunteered.

 

The officer consulted someone via radio, then muttered gruffly. He took a statement and Enjolras ' information, checked him out, took his fingerprints "as a baseline," then dismissed him. Enjolras was rather surprised not to have been a prime suspect in whatever had happened – of course, the officer wouldn't tell him. But this was bloody and he was clean, and based on the officer's interactions with Marta, she was known in this area. Enjolras followed her as the crime scene tape was put up and they were shooed away.

 

"Cops usually right on it," Marta commented, "but, boy, they were busy tonight. Medics got out of here with that one before they could show. I called 'em."

 

"I see. Thank you." Enjolras pulled twenty dollars from his wallet and offered it to her. It didn't exactly help distract her from thinking about him being rich, but it would hopefully buy her some food. "Here, make sure you get something good to eat."

 

Marta snorted. "If you got questions, just ask. Coppers don't like it when you pay to play."

 

"It's a gift," Enjolras insisted, pressing it into her hand. "Though I would appreciate your telling me what happened."

 

"Some kid got shanked," Marta said, shrugging matter-of-factly. It was probably something she saw a lot. There were streets of nothing good between the nice areas of town, it seemed. "Mikey was after him; that's all I know. Probably the one that screwed Mikey over Tina."

 

Enjolras relaxed a little – as far as he knew, Grantaire didn't know anyone named Mikey or Tina. His phone vibrated in his hand, the ringer drowned out by the ambient noise. Enjolras noted he had three texts waiting and a missed call, but it was Joly calling, so he answered it. " _Allo_?"

 

Joly was panicked, and Enjolras could hear Marius trying to calm him in the background. Enjolras ' heart sunk just a little bit. This couldn't be good. "Where are you?"

 

“Hospital,”Joly replied. "They just brought him in."

 

Enjolras didn't have to ask who "he" was. "Where is he?"

 

"Trauma suite," Joly said. "We're in the waiting room; no one's told us anything yet, but..." He sighed. "It looks bad, Gabe."

 

" _Merde_." Enjolras muttered. "I'm on my way." He nodded to Marta. "Thank you for your help. I wish I could do more for you."

 

"Well, don't you just come out of a Regency novel," Marta murmured to herself as she moved along. “Sweet ass, too.”

 

Enjolras didn't look back as he headed for the nearest subway.

 

 

 


	4. When the Wolf Growls at the Door

Breakfast meetings of Les Amis had, historically, never been well-attended. So even though they were four short, when everyone who was actually in Paris showed up, it felt like a crowd at the Cafe Musain. Combeferre looked around the room, watching Jehan feed Courfeyrac pieces of a croissant, and rolled his eyes. "He can feed himself, you know."

 

Jehan grinned. "I know, but it's so much fun! Especially when he licks my fingers!"

 

Combeferre shook his head. Those two were hopeless. Both passionate about everything they did. _Everything._ "More information than I needed." Gavroche was perched on the counter, completely ignored by Eponine, who'd been working the morning shift lately. "And shouldn't you be getting ready for school?"

 

Gavroche bit into a chocolate-chip muffin – provided, no doubt, by his sister, much as she pretended to overlook him as he pestered her. "Eh?" He pretended like it was a foreign concept. "No school today – it's Wednesday!”

 

Eponine smiled as she shoved Gavroche off the counter when a potential customer came into the cafe.  “He does have that." Gavroche had been know to convince more gullible members of the group that he didn't have school when he, in fact, should have been there.

 

"See?" Gavroche stuck his chin out proudly with all the impudence an eleven year old could muster. "Sometimes Gavroche is _right_."

 

"And sometimes Eponine bops him anyway," Eponine murmured as she turned back to her work.

 

Gavroche snorted. Despite their pasts, Eponine could threaten her brother with mild violence precisely because everyone knew she'd never follow through on it. " _Oui, oui._ A real comedian, that 'Ponine." He grinned at her devilishly. "You're just mad because Lover Boy's not here."

 

Eponine rolled her eyes. “Please. Control yourself.”

 

Gavroche struck a dramatic pose, starting to sing. " _Oh, how can he not feel the same way, when we're strolling down the Champs-Élysées? In the City of Love..._ "

 

"Gavroche!" He was probably the only one who could get away with teasing her about her crush on Marius, and even then, she wasn't going to just sit there and take it. Eponine plucked a piece of bagel out of the day-old bin and winged it at her brother. "No one comes here to listen to you sing."

 

Gavroche was undeterred, continuing to sing the tune. "I wish that he would whisper, ' _Ma cherie, je t'aime,'_ but then he went and got his ass on a plane..." He was only encouraged by the snickers around him. Eponine was glaring at him, blushing a little, trying to maintain her composure. “Bye!” Gavroche flashed an impish grin and was out the door into the cold morning, Eponine leaving the counter long enough to chase after him with his coat.

 

"That boy," Eponine muttered fondly.

 

Combeferre chuckled as he glanced around the cafe again. He smiled, watching Feuilly and Bossuet staring into their coffee cups. They rarely showed up to these morning gatherings, so he could hardly blame them for only being half-awake. Especially considering that as far as Combeferre could tell, they hadn't actually been to bed yet. Only those two could find themselves that much adventure on a Tuesday night.  Apparently, they'd gone out after Feuilly got off his evening shift.

 

Combeferre slid into an empty chair across the table from Bahorel, who smiled at him. "So, do we actually _know_ anything about the apparent future Madame Pontmercy?" Bahorel asked. He didn't shrink when Eponine threw him a dark look. "Well, Gavroche brought it up."

 

"She's Jean Valjean's daughter," Combeferre said, shrugging. "Impressive lineage, that." Jean Valjean was a passionate activist for the poor, which made him an honorary Friend of ABC whether he knew it or not. No one knew all of the details about his past, but he'd been forced to seek political asylum in the States not long after he'd adopted his daughter. Les Amis were not exactly strangers to run-ins with the law, so they understood.

 

"She's adopted," Eponine interjected.

 

"Well, I doubt that much matters to the way she was raised," Combeferre pointed out.

 

Eponine shrugged. "I know her, you know."

 

"Well, of course." Courfeyrac grinned. "You know everyone."

 

Eponine laughed. "No, really, I do. She lived with me. Haven't seen her since we were children, but...I remember.”

 

"That's right." Combeferre nodded. "I remember, the media was making a fuss over it when he adopted her after the bust." They generally tried to avoid the subject for obvious reasons, but the "Thenardier scandal," as it had come to be known, was fairly infamous, especially in this area. Eponine and Gavroche's parents had been scamming the foster care system for several years, heaping abuse and child labor on most of the children they so publicly championed. In the meantime, they sold their toddler son for what was rumored to a pretty steep price. Eponine had been forced to become a pawn in their game – but when the government finally busted the case, several years too late, she had gotten out, at least temporarily. After a few years, her parents successfully petitioned to have her returned, claiming they'd reformed. They hadn't, but they knew how to play the game and so did Eponine. It had taken her a long time to break from that toxic cycle. Gavroche had been more or less left to raise himself, though Eponine interceded when she could find him. He'd bounced through the system, dodging it most of the time. Gavroche took a certain pride in being able to fend for himself. Legally, at the moment, Eponine was his guardian, but he mostly only slept and ate at her place. She knew not to cage him or he'd just disappear until he'd decided she'd learned her lesson.

 

"Well." Eponine was trying just a little too hard to be breezy about it, but that was understandable. "Like I said, we were children. I haven't been having cocktails with her or anything."

 

The silence that followed was awkward. Normally, it would have been up to Grantaire to make some outrageous remark; even when he wasn't drunk, he was a master of sarcasm and loved to push the limits. Whenever things exceeded whatever emotional threshold he'd deemed acceptable, he was quick to defuse the situation. After a moment, though, as if sensing the lag, Bossuet stood up and approached Eponine, sighing melodramatically. "Oh, Monsieur Pontmercy!" He had adopted an absolutely terrible imitation of the average adult female. "Whatever have you done to my poor heart? We've but just met!"

 

Eponine hid a smile behind her hand, then mussed her hair a bit and leaned across the counter. "Cosette! We must be connected somehow!" Her impression of Marius actually wasn't that bad.

 

Bossuet laid it on thick. "This isn't...strange, is it?"

 

"Of course not." Eponine put a hand on his cheek. "Just...take it for what it is."

 

"Oh, Marius!" Bossuet gasped. And that was what sent everybody over the edge into helpless laughter.

 

Bossuet grinned and took a bow. "Thank you, gentlemen." He kissed Eponine's hand. "And my lovely leading lady."

 

Combeferre shook his head. "You all are warped," he sighed affectionately.

 

Bossuet shrugged and slipped back into his chair. "Of course, my friend,but yet you stay."

 

Combeferre laughed. "I didn't say that was a bad thing."

 

* * *

 

 

It had no doubt been fate that caused Marius to get turned around in the parking garage. It had only delayed him about five minutes, but that had been just enough. He'd jogged across the parking garage to the emergency department entrance, where Joly was waiting. Marius had jumped at the sound of an ambulance hurrying into the adjacent bay. The paramedics were shouting in medical jargon as they worked on their patient, and Marius and Joly stepped out of the way as they hurried by. Then they'd exchanged a look of horror.

 

They'd both seen different things, they'd find when they compared notes later. Joly had noticed the mass of dark curls and forced himself to look down at the face to confirm he wrong. He wasn't. Marius' attention had been drawn to the limp arm hanging off the cot – and the bracelet around the wrist. A young girl had been selling braided bracelets at one the rallies they'd attended and she'd happily tied each into place around its new owner's wrist. Grantaire had never removed it. The color had faded over the months, but it was still instantly recognizable to Marius.

 

The two friends had immediately rushed back inside, Joly listening carefully to the medical babble and translating it to Marius. But Joly hadn't been at the hospital long enough to have connections in the emergency department, so they'd been left in the dark as soon as the trauma suite door shut. The next half hour was a blur; Marius vaguely remembered retreating to the waiting room and trying to calm Joly, who was pacing as he called Enjolras. After making the call, Joly sank into a chair, wringing his hands. He rambled for a bit, going over the few facts they knew – it was some sort of stab wound, significant blood loss, collapsed lung. Marius wasn't sure if knowing so little was better or worse. It left a lot room for anxious guessing – but at the same time, he didn't know if he was prepared for the full story.

 

Enjolras burst into the waiting room before long, and Marius rushed to meet him. "Enj." He wanted to hug Enjorlas desperately, but he held back, seeing their leader's rigid stance. Enjolras wasn't going to allow himself to be comforted, not yet. To anyone who didn't know him, Enjolras would have appeared to be the epitome of calm, but Marius knew him too to be fooled. The tense posture, the way his eyes darted around the room...for Enjolras, that was akin to barely controlled panic.

 

“Start talking," Enjolras snapped.

 

Joly shook his head. "We still don't know anything." His face lit up with inspiration. "But you, you're family; you'd be able to get information." In a sense, they were all family, but Enjolras was the one listed on Grantaire's forms.

 

Enjolras nodded, and moved immediately to the reception desk. His expression was stormy as he returned. He relayed what little report was readily available. Grantaire was in surgery. The knife had gone between two ribs, puncturing the lung and damaging a blood vessel. He had mild head injury, but the stab wound was the life-threatening concern. Enjolras made a half-hearted attempt at a joke about the number of concussions Grantaire had sustained already, and what was one more, but it fell flat.

 

Joly was the first to dare to offer sympathy – but he was the better person for it, with his sensitive nature. "Gabe..." Outside of that night, Marius could count on one hand the number of times he'd heard Joly address Enjolras by his first name. "I know-"

 

Enjolras cut him off. "No, you don't."

 

Joly didn't so much as flinch. "Well, I can't know, exactly, but--"

 

"No." Enjolras raked his fingers through his hair. "I didn't know where he _was_."

 

Marius shrugged. "He keeps his own schedule. He always has, Enjolras."

 

"I should have known," Enjolras insisted.

 

Joly seemed to sense that they weren't going to talk him out of that one. "But you knew how to find out. You went looking for him."

 

"He always knows where I am," Enjolras sighed, dropping his head to his chest.

 

"That's because he's obsessed with you," Marius offered, only half-joking. He might have reconsidered had he actually thought about the words before they left his mouth, but his brain was a step behind and not just because of the late hour.

 

Fortunately, Enjolras seemed to see the truth in Marius' words. "But I'm not obsessed with him." It was a simple statement of fact. He loved Grantaire, but the only thing anyone truly say he was obsessed with was his cause.

 

Joly shrugged. "It's not your way."

 

"He deserves someone who's obsessed with him," Enjolras said quietly.

 

Marius sighed. They'd been down a road like this one before – though the circumstances hadn't been as dire. Enjolras, who never doubted himself when he was on fire for justice, was apparently capable of doing a complete turn-around when it came to his relationship. Of course, he didn't have much experience in the matter, either. Enjolras never had time for anyone's lonely soul, not even his own, before he'd been forced – perhaps not so gently – by his friends to see what was in front of him. Marius put a hesitant hand on Enjolras' shoulder, after hesitating to see if Enjolras would allow it. "R's never wanted more than you're comfortable giving."

 

Joly nodded. "He loves just being around you."

 

That didn't seem to make Enjolras feel any better. "Heaven knows why."

 

"As Jehan would say, _c'est l'amor._ " Joly shrugged, then looked alarmed. "We should call them."

 

Enjolras shook his head. "Let's not worry them until we have news."

 

Marius frowned. "If it was one of them..."

 

Enjolras glared at Marius briefly, that look that said Marius was right and he hated to admit it. Marius was normally far more pleased with himself when he got _that_ look, but he couldn't muster the excitement now. "I'll call them."

 

"Enj, we can--” Marius broke off as Enjolras pulled away and stood up. Enjolras' phone was already in his hand. It was probably just as well. Marius suspected it would be good for Enjolras to talk to the rest of their friends, to get that support. Marius sighed, leaning back against the uncomfortable waiting-room chair. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he grabbed it distractedly.

 

_Cosette: Are you still alive?_

 

Marius jolted. He'd been in the middle of a chat with Cosette when Enjolras had interrupted and Marius had no idea what was going on, so he'd just told Cosette he'd be back. He felt bad for leaving her hanging, but he knew she'd understand. _Sorry. Emergency._ He managed to hit send before he considered how alarming that might sound.

 

_Cosette: Are you okay?_

 

That was a relative term, considering someone had tried to kill one of his best friends. _I'm okay. R was stabbed. Waiting for news._

 

_Cosette: OMG. Where are you?_

 

Marius might not have been the quickest draw when it came to women, but he was able to figure that one out. _You don't have to come._

 

_Cosette: I'm coming. Where are you?_

 

Marius hated the idea of her coming out at this time of the night, but she lived with her father, so hopefully he'd be able to intercede – or at least make sure she got there safely. _New York Presbyterian_ _. Be safe._

 

* * *

 

 

Courfeyrac watched with concern as Combeferre talked with Enjolras. The conversation was serious, Courfeyrac could tell, and Combeferre was worried. He was asking for details about some kind of injury, and Courfeyrac settled nervously next to Jehan as they waited for the news. If it was minor, Enjolras probably wouldn't have even bothered to call. This had to be serious, to get Combeferre that rattled. Courfeyrac was already making plans in his mind.

 

"What's wrong?" Jehan asked as soon as Combeferre hung up. They'd lingered in the cafe after breakfast and now Courfeyrac was glad for it. Combeferre had been studying when got the call and Courfeyrac probably should have been, but Jehan was so much more interesting than tort law.

 

Combeferre sat down at the table. "R's hurt. Someone attacked him."

 

Jehan gasped and Courfeyrac reached out to rub his arm. "Is he going to be all right?"

 

"Don't know yet." Combeferre sighed. "It's pretty bad. Enjolras is really shaken, though he'd never admit it."

 

Courfeyrac nodded. That decided it. It was going to take serious, liberal use of his connections, but he was pretty sure he could pull it off. "Then put the word out. I'd suggest you update your passports."

 

Jehan smiled. "I was hoping you'd say that."

 

 

 


	5. The Darkest Night

As the night dragged on, the emergency room began to draw more of a crowd – and though Joly worked past his hypochondria when there was a crisis at hand, he was clearly not comfortable being around that many people with various ailments who insisted on hacking and coughing without even covering their mouths. Marius could understand sudden bouts of illness, but he'd never quite grasped why something someone had been ignoring for days suddenly became an emergency at two am. As Joly switched seats once more, just to put a little more distance between himself and the offenders, Marius – who was decidedly unaccustomed to taking charge – decided they should probably move to the hospital lobby, which was near the surgical suites. As long as the staff knew where to find them with news, it probably didn't matter where they sat. Besides, he thought the change of scenery might do Enjolras some good. The blond had been sitting motionless for the past hour, his elbows on his thighs, staring desolately at the floor.

 

When Cosette explained the situation to her father, Valjean had driven her to the hospital. He'd made polite inquires and chatted briefly with Marius before Cosette was able coax him into going home and getting some sleep. It had been strange; the circumstances had taken all the awkwardness out of meeting Cosette's father. Marius' attention had been pulled in too many directions to worry about that. He'd apparently passed inspection, though, because Valjean had kissed Cosette on the forehead, told her to be careful, and departed with a look that warned Marius of the consequences of not taking proper care of his daughter. Valjean was known to be quite protective of Cosette, so he wouldn't leave her with just anybody. It gave Marius a small emotional boost; he supposed that was part of why he was coping as well as he was. Enjolras crumbled only rarely, and when he did, the group typically turned to Combeferre. But Combeferre was in Paris and Joly had devoted himself to keeping watch over Enjolras. So command fell to Marius and that was more than a little awkward.

 

It was rumored that the French revolutionaries Enjolras so passionately admired had been able to build a serviceable barricade in ten minutes flat. Les Amis were always fascinated this and had attempted to construct their own barricade last Bastille Day. Unfortunately, even Courfeyrac's puppy-dog eyes had not been able to convince anyone to throw furniture out their windows at a group of college kids on a quest, and so they'd been left with only a small pile of chairs in the Musain. It had been fun, though, and they'd huddled there, drinking and laughing and generally just enjoying life. Marius missed those times. Even Enjolras' stoicism had faded as he grinned at his friends and put a small French flag atop the uppermost chair. That side of Enjolras was light years away now, and Marius squeezed Enjolras' arm in support as they moved to the hospital lobby. He wanted that Enjolras back, but he knew it wasn't going to happen until Grantaire was on the mend.

 

" _Merci_ ," Joly murmured to Marius as they got settled in their new location. He looked enormously relieved as he sat down next to Enjolras. Marius sat on the other side, making sure Enjolras had someone close no matter which way he turned.

 

"Of course." Marius smiled, wrapping an arm around Cosette as she snuggled up to him on the far more comfortable couch in the lobby. Sandwiched between Enjolras and Cosette, Marius finally began to feel the gravity of the situation. Grantaire always bounced back, no matter what life threw at him. But this wasn't going to be as easy. This wasn't a bar fight or a broken heart. Alcohol and sarcasm couldn't make it go away. It couldn't be projected onto a canvas. But Grantaire would at least have his friends on hand to help. It seemed that was all they could do and as helpless as that made Marius feel, he knew it was important.

 

There was a Starbucks at the far end of the lobby that was open twenty-four hours. Cosette got up after and brought them some, which Marius accepted gratefully. He offered a cup to Enjolras – who was most decidedly not a fan of the chain – with a teasing grin. Enjolras sighed and took the coffee absentmindedly, sipping at it with a grateful nod. Joly nearly did a double take and grabbed his phone, quickly texting someone. Marius leaned against Cosette, trying not to stare at the clock. Some said it was always darkest before the dawn. Marius didn't know about that, but he didn't care so long as they _got_ a dawn. It couldn't come soon enough.

 

* * *

 

 

Her job at the Cafe Musain had been easy to get, given that Eponine and her friends spent so much time there. After awhile, she'd figured that if she was going to hang out there, she might as well get paid for it, and the owner had been happy to offer her a position when she asked. It worked out well. The Musain was a fun place to work, with its primary clientele being bohemian artists and ambitious students. And it let her keep an eye on her boys. Les Amis had been very good to her and Gavroche, helping them to keep warm and fed when things got really tough. Their study sessions helped her graduate high school, and more than once, they'd offered to help her with college tuition. She always politely declined, saying she preferred to be a student of the world. And, really, she did, but she also could only accept so much charity before her independent streak rebelled.

 

Eponine had been in the back room, doing inventory, when she caught Combeferre's voice in snatches. He was standing near the door, where reception was best. (The Musain had great Wi-Fi, but the old building's cell phone signal left something to be desired.) The vent above the door happened to carry sound to the stock room pretty well, and Eponine paused at the note of concern in Combeferre's muffled voice. She hurried to finish what she was doing and moved back out into the main cafe. As soon as she saw her friends, she knew something was seriously wrong.

 

Combeferre was tapping his fingers on the table, a nervous habit of his as he looked deep in thought. Jehan was glued to Courfeyrac's side, a daisy about to tumble from behind his ear to the floor, but he didn't seem to notice. Courfeyrac had one arm around Jehan, but had wriggled his hand free to hold his phone and he was texting furiously, his brow creased with worry. The other Amis had left already, either to class or wherever they spent their mornings.

 

Eponine's pocket vibrated and she grabbed her phone before she approached the trio, hoping for answers. Courfeyrac's text was surprisingly brief; he didn't usually spare words.

 

_Courfeyrac: Clear your schedules. Emergency meeting. This is not a drill._

 

That settled it. Eponine strode over to the table Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Combeferre were occupying and claimed the empty chair. “What's going on?"

 

"Taire's in trouble." Jehan toyed with the end of his ponytail, which only further threatened to dislodge the daisy. Sometimes Eponine thought he was too unearthly to be real – he was gorgeous, with flowing hair he kept immaculately maintained and a beautiful face to match. He was tall and muscular, but completely unwilling to conform to gender stereotypes. Eponine had never gone for him romantically, but his beauty and Courfeyrac's sheer adorableness were a perfect match. Neither of them cared what society thought and Eponine admired that. People who wrote Jehan off without giving him a chance didn't deserve to know that sweet, caring soul anyway. Even if he did get a bit morbid sometimes.

 

Eponine's instinctive response to the news that Grantaire was in trouble was to laugh, though it came out as more of a snort. "When isn't he in trouble?" She knew they would worry about her if she didn't make some kind wisecrack, but she knew from their faces that this was serious.

 

"He was stabbed," Combeferre said quietly. "No idea why. Enjolras said he's in surgery now."

 

“Mother of God." Eponine wasn't exactly religious, but her gasp wasn't exactly a prayer either. "Enjolras must be beside himself."

 

"He is, even if he won't admit it," Combeferre confirmed. "It's been a long time since I've heard him this upset. He's starting to withdraw." Combeferre and Enjolras had grown up in the same neighborhood; they'd been friends most of their lives. Combeferre knew Enjolras better, at times, than Enjolras did himself.

 

"What about Joly and Marius?" Eponine asked.

 

"From what I could gather, they're keeping it together," Combeferre replied. "Cosette came down to the hospital." He didn't bother to shoot an apologetic look at Eponine, which spoke volumes about his state of mind, even though it wasn't really necessary. Eponine knew Marius was blind to her love; she'd accepted that long ago. Though it stung, she wasn't going to begrudge him finding happiness.

 

Courfeyrac made a low noise when his phone beeped. " _Sacre bleu,_ this keeps getting worse. Cosette brought Starbucks."

 

Eponine laughed. Cosette wouldn't have known of her faux pas, but it was amusing to picture. "And what did she think of Enjorlas' treatise on mindless consumerism and corporate greed?"

 

"That's just it!" Courfeyrac shook his head.

 

"He didn't notice?" Combeferre asked, looking worried.

 

"Worse." Courfeyrac was seriously perturbed. "He _drank_ it. Willingly."

 

"Oh, boy." Eponine sighed. Individually, the guys all had differing views on the Starbucks issue. Enjolras was the only one who took the firm "friends don't let friends drink Starbucks" route. Most of them didn't have an opinion one way or the other, or at least pointed out that Starbucks _did_ use fair trade products. They generally just made a point to visit local cafes – which, in Eponine's experience, usually had better coffee anyway. Grantaire, meanwhile, would go out of his way to find a Starbucks for the express purpose of winding Enjolras up. Eventually, Enjolras learned not to take the bait, but he still threw out a token protest or two. Memories of their banter made Eponine smile.

 

_"I'm just saying, when one reaches the point where they can leave Starbucks and walk across the street and into another Starbucks, capitalism has gone too far."_

 

_Grantaire laughed, taking an extremely purposeful sip of his coffee. "Maybe it was designed for lazy people."_

 

_Enjolras scoffed. "As if that's a trait that should be encouraged."_

 

_"Hey, don't laugh." Grantaire shrugged. "The ancient Greeks' gods lived on top of a mountain in their country and yet all of them were too lazy to climb it and check to see if anyone was home."_

 

Grantaire. It was just beginning to sink in for Eponine. He'd been _stabbed_. Why? He was an artist, not a street fighter. Grantaire and Eponine had bonded through their unofficial lonely hearts club, and though Grantaire eventually got his man, he was always there to lend a sympathetic ear. To watch artsy movies, drink whatever they could find, and blast music written by people who had horrible relationships with their families. He was her buddy, and though he didn't possess any notably effeminate characteristics, he was the closest thing she had to a traditional girl friend. Jehan was the go-to guy for waxing poetic about love; Grantaire was there when love bit you in the ass. And yet he loved truly, deeply, and freely– just not indiscriminately. He didn't fall in love with ideas. He was a genuine nihilist, with one fixation: a blond law student who, as Grantaire had described him, "looked like he'd fallen from Olympus itself." Eponine's heart clenched. Grantaire had his problems; they all did. But he was kind and he didn't deserve something like this. Had it been, say, Montparnasse, Eponine wouldn't have gotten too worked up; she was tempted to stab him herself sometimes. But, Grantaire...she couldn't wrap her head around it. "What _do_ we know?"

 

"The good or the bad?" Combeferre asked.

 

"Whatever you have." Eponine was not quite so cynical about life as Grantaire, but she definitely considered herself a realist.

 

"The evidence suggests he was rescued fairly quickly," Combeferre said. "Enjolras met a woman on the streets who said she knew the attacker – no one Grantaire knew, it seems. There was apparently a dispute over a woman named Tina. I have no idea what that was all about and neither does Enjolras."

 

"Tina...Tina. Such a shame, these atrocities committed in your name," Jehan murmured. Eponine would have been annoyed, but she knew he wasn't trying to be dramatic. Jehan's brain actually worked that way.

 

"Tina? That doesn't even make sense." Eponine shook her head. "Even if R was single, he's not going to get into a fight with a stranger over some girl.”

 

"That's what I thought." Combeferre sighed. "That may not even be it. As we all know, a disproportionate number of the mentally ill fall through the cracks and spend their lives on streets. This woman could be one of them or she might simply be mistaken. Or R might have even been mistaken for someone else. We can't jump to conclusions."

 

Eponine crossed her arms over her chest. “Get to the point." Combeferre tended to over-think everything.

 

Combeferre nodded quickly, catching Eponine's unspoken threat to throttle him if he didn't get to the point. "He lost a lot of blood. A _lot_. Collapsed lung. I think Enjolras said something about a concussion, but that's less concerning."

 

"So you're the medical school dropout." Technically, Combeferre had given up medicine to pursue philosophy, his true love, but if Eponine didn't keep her famous rough edge, she give in to the anxiety that threatened to crush her. "Is he going to be all right or not?"

 

"I can't say." Combeferre definitely looked at a loss, especially as Courfeyrac and Jehan turned to him for the answer as well. "There are so many variables."

 

"Great," Courfeyrac sighed. He glanced at his phone again. "I'm working on getting us there. I can't promise it'll be all of us at the same time. You and Gavroche, are your passports still current?"

 

Eponine nodded. The guys had insisted Eponine get travel papers for herself and her brother, "just in case." Eponine had thought it pointless, but allowed them to help her through the process, figuring it couldn't hurt. And then they'd surprised her with a trip to London for her eighteenth birthday. She began to put the pieces together. "Courf, it's a lovely thought, but Gavroche has school and I have work. You boys go. They'll need you more anyway."

 

Courfeyrac frowned. "Your brother learns more on the street in a day than he does in a week at school."

 

Eponine couldn't really argue that point, and a friend in need certainly trumped perfect attendance – which was a joke where Gavroche was concerned anyhow. "All right, then. Take the little imp with you. I'll sign off on it. But I've still got to work. How long are you going to be gone?"

 

"Probably only a week, alas," Courfeyrac said. "I'd love to stay until Taire's completely recovered, but some of these gentlemen's professors are very touchy – and interestingly enough, the more lofty their subject, the less willing they seem to listen to the 'higher cause' argument."

 

Jehan smiled. "Perhaps they think themselves so far above us that _they_ are the highest cause imaginable."

 

Combeferre smirked. "It wouldn't surprise me. I've had my fair share of lessons from men who thought they were the reincarnation of Socrates. A few women, too, for that matter. If I ever get like that, just hold my head under water until I stop struggling."

 

Courfeyrac nodded, as if it were an everyday request. "Deal." He consulted his phone again. "I can't promise I'll get us all there at the same time, but I can get us _there._ ”

 

Eponine asked the question that everyone always wondered about but no one actually gave voice to. She wasn't known for her subtlety. "How is this getting paid for?" Everyone knew Marius' grandfather was rich, though he had shunned that upper-crust lifestyle. Rumors abounded that Courfeyrac's family might have been even wealthier, but no one had been able to confirm it, even with the most extensive of Internet searches. No one officially knew anything about Courfeyrac's family, not even Jehan. It was rumored that Enjolras and Combeferre did, but their lips were sealed. But, ultimately, their friends respected Courfeyrac too much to force anyone to talk. Eponine wouldn't push if he brushed off her question; she just had to put it out there.

 

"Connections." Courfeyrac shrugged, flashing his most adorable grin. "I have an old friend who works for Air France. He's a bit too bourgy to hang out with, but it does help me call favors in."

 

"Brilliant!" Jehan smiled up at Courfeyrac. "I'll sit in your lap if I have to."

 

Eponine laughed. He would probably do it, too. Though, technically, given their size difference, it would have made more sense for Courfeyrac to sit in Jehan's lap. "For an eight-hour flight."

 

Courfeyrac ruffled his fingers through Jehan's hair. The daisy finally worked its way to freedom. "Don't worry about that, _mon chaton_. I'll make sure we're together." He glanced at Eponine. "And don't count yourself out yet."

 

Eponine was doubtful, but Les Amis had pulled off bigger things before. She moved to start a new batch of coffee as Bossuet hurried in, responding to the emergency text. The others would be arriving soon and they were going to need it. She could have done with a bottle of wine herself, but even if she wasn't on duty, it was still too early to get away with anything more than mimosas.

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras was a man who believed deeply and absolutely. He was open to altering his views as new information was revealed, but in the absence of additional facts, he never swayed. For the first twenty years of his life, he had known that he could never love someone who didn't believe in the same causes with the same level of certainty. And then he'd fallen in love with Grantaire. A new variable to skew his worldview. For a long time, Enjolras had been sure Grantaire believed only in not believing anything, but then he'd come to realize that Grantaire believed in him the way _he_ believed in France. The love that Enjolras had for easing the plight of the poor was matched only by the love Grantaire had for him. It was terrifying, flattering, and alluring for Enjolras, all at the same time. Not many men could truly say that they were the god of their partner's universe. Enjolras was sure it couldn't be healthy, but Grantaire always laughed that off. Little in his life was healthy, he said, but at least this vice made him happy. They were only two years into their romantic relationship, but Enjolras was already sure this was where he was meant to be.

 

Enjolras was with Grantaire because he wanted to be, not because he felt obligated to indulge Grantaire's fixation. He loved Grantaire – and as with anything he loved, Enjolras loved him fully. They were like any other couple. They fought – bitterly, sometimes, but always with the promise of the fun of making up. Opposites attracted, but they got on each other's nerves sometimes, too. Grantaire told him he worried too much. Enjolras thought Grantaire didn't worry enough. Usually, the two extremes balanced each other out, and it was enough to cause Enjolras to reconsider his formerly doubtful stance on the concept of soul mates. Enjolras had been worrying about the wrong things all along. Grantaire's addiction to alcohol wasn't what had put his life in danger now. It was a concern, yes, but Enjolras had never thought to consider the "Mikeys" of the world, those who would try to kill an innocent man on the way to his car. There were too many questions. Who was Tina? What had happened to her? Grantaire flirted freely; it was his way. Could someone have confused his playfulness with being serious? Enjolras supposed the "why" didn't really matter. All that did matter was that the man he loved was fighting to live. And it shouldn't have been that way. They should have been home, together, either in bed or curled up on the couch. Enjolras shouldn't have been in a hospital lobby, waiting for word. Grantaire shouldn't have been in surgery. It was as simple as that.

 

Enjolras was in a daze and that was very unlike him. He'd barely noticed Cosette's arrival and he was even more surprised when Joly mentioned that Valjean had been the one to drop her off. He felt a little bad for not being properly social – Valjean was a man Enjolras greatly admired – but they had only previously met professionally and so Enjolras supposed he could be forgiven. Cosette assured him he shouldn't worry about it; her father knew Enjolras and Grantaire were partners and understood that Enjolras was distraught. She smiled sweetly and patted Enjolras' shoulder. _"I know you two aren't married, but you might as well be. I haven't known you very long, but I can tell you've got the stuff love is made of._ Before Grantaire, Enjolras would have rolled his eyes at the sappy sentiment. Now, it meant a lot. And in this exact situation, it forced him to swallow hard several times and drive his fingernails into his palm to keep control of his emotions.

 

Marriage. It was an option now, both in New York and their beloved France. It always _should_ have been, as far as Enjolras was concerned, but that was another issue entirely. He'd never considered it, really. He and Grantaire loved each other and they were happy with the way things were. Neither of them thought they needed the financial protections marriage provided, so why alter the status quo? He didn't even know how Grantaire felt about the idea. But it was probably something they should at least discuss, after Grantaire recovered. It occurred to that even if he _was_ listed as Grantaire's emergency contact, some bigoted idiot somewhere could deny him access because he wasn't legally family and there would be little he could do. _Those_ were the protections they needed. Fortunately, the staff at this hospital hadn't lifted so much as an eyebrow when Enjolras had approached them for information; they'd been kind and had promised Enjolras they'd give him news as soon as there was any.

 

Enjolras was somewhat relieved to see the receptionist name him in the computer system as "significant other," considering that in the for "relationship" on his emergency form last time they were here, Grantaire had actually written, _"I'm fucking him."_ He always did love to go for shock value and considering it had only been for an x-ray, had been fun to watch people's reactions. Rather, it was fun in retrospect. Enjolras had been dying of embarrassment at the time. But he'd begun to see the humor when, after they'd confirmed that Grantaire _hadn't_ broken his wrist, Enjolras heard one of the nurses murmur to another, "I think he's just gloating. Have you _seen_ his boyfriend?"

 

Enjolras lost all sense of time as the night wore on. Cosette and Marius drifted off at some point, though Enjolras could tell by glancing at them they would probably wake at slightest noise. Joly was distracting himself going through an assortment of pamphlets from the information kiosk, most of which concerned either services the hospital had to offer or the importance of proper handwashing.

 

Enjolras tugged at one of his wristbands as a means of keeping his fingers occupied. He wore several awareness wristbands, all for different causes. He actually had dozens; he tended to rotate them depending on his mission and his mood. This was one he'd bought for a little boy fighting cancer two years ago; the kid had survived against all odds and was thriving. Enjolras wore it often, both in honor of a boy who had faced things no child should and for the very idea that there was hope in the world. He was having harder time believing that now. As if on cue, Enjolras' phone buzzed with a text from Jehan. His friends had a very strange way of doing that, as if they could read his mind, even an ocean away.

 

_Jehan: Hang in there, Enj. Remember – even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise._

 

"That's nice," Enjolras muttered to himself. Marius stirred and Enjolras put a hand on his arm to settle him before standing up and moving away so he could properly pace. He was starting to feel cooped up, the tension gnawing at his muscles. "That's really fucking beautiful, Prouvaire." It was, actually. A lovely thought. And true. But Enjolras wasn't remotely in the mood.

 

A petite, curly-haired woman in scrubs walked into the lobby, consulting her clipboard. "Mr. Enjolras...?"

 

Enjolras couldn't even spare a thought to be annoyed at the way she mangled his name. He crossed to her immediately. "How is he?" That had to be why she was here; he'd already signed endless consent forms. _Anything, just save him._

 

"He's out of the OR," the woman answered. "Our post-operative team will be monitoring him for the next hour, then he'll be transferred to ICU."

 

"Can I see him?" Enjolras had to prove to himself that Grantaire was alive and they weren't just letting him down gently, only to come back with their sympathies in a few minutes.

 

She nodded. "Yes, for a few minutes."

 

Enjolras looked back at Joly, who had apparently witnessed the conversation, because he motioned for Enjolras to go. Enjolras didn't need to be told twice. He followed the woman down the hall, through double doors, and the scent of antiseptic solution and medicine washed over him. Now it really felt like a hospital. One more set of doors, a row of curtains, most open to reveal empty beds. And a closed curtain, near what looked like a nurse's station. Enjolras' escort signaled the nurse who was walking past. "This is his partner," she to the nurse, nodding and handing over the clipboard.

 

The nurse smiled at Enjolras and pulled the curtain aside to allow him entrance...and there he was. Grantaire. Looking worse than Enjolras had ever seen him, even at his sickest. Blood infused through an IV in one arm, fluids through another. There was a tube taped to his mouth, down his throat, breathing for him. There were blankets heaped upon Grantaire and Enjolras was somewhat relieved he didn't have to take in all the damage at once. He sat down in the offered chair, nodding as the nurse put a gentle hand on his shoulder and told him she'd be happy to answer any questions.

 

Enjolras took Grantaire's limp hand in his, noting the bruised knuckles. "You tried to fight back," Enjolras whispered appreciatively. He smoothed the matted, tangled curls away from Grantaire's forehead and kissed it lightly. “Keep fighting, love."

 

 


	6. The Magical Mystery Tour

Combeferre was completely content with his position as guide to Les Amis, standing at Enjolras' side but not actually calling the shots. Since Enjolras had been abroad, he'd been filling the void, but it had been mostly rallies and food drives and such. Nothing major. Nothing he couldn't consult Enjolras about if needed. But, this, this would have been a crisis had everyone been home in Paris. Across two continents, it had the potential to be overwhelming. So the only logical decision was accept Courfeyrac's offer and bring the Amis to New York. Enjolras and Grantaire needed their family, all of them. Joly needed Bossuet and Musichetta – who was of course coming, as soon as she heard. Marius had Cosette with him, but Combeferre knew Marius was even less accustomed to taking the lead than he was. And it wouldn't do to stress him out.

 

Some of the flight times had been cutting it close. Combeferre had smiled with amusement upon hearing a final boarding call for the flight Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Bahorel were on, then seeing Jehan and Courfeyrac tearing through the terminal, flower petals falling from Jehan's hair and marking the path of their departure. Combeferre had been fortunate enough to secure a spot on a later flight; as much as he wanted to be in New York instantly, he hated being rushed. It also gave him time to check in with Enjolras. Who was, predictably, a wreck.

 

Enjolras and Combeferre had been friends since childhood; they had been brothers of the heart long before finding the rest of the group. They were both the sons of wealthy diplomats, but their fathers had both seen the poorest living conditions the world had to offer. They taught their children to care for those less fortunate. Enjolras' father had been killed in an attack on the French embassy in Argentina when the boys were eight. They'd been close before, but that cemented their bond, as Enjolras struggled to cope with the loss of his beloved father. His new role as the man of the house, taking care of his mother, who had lost the love of her life. And when his mother had been depressed and distant, he'd sought shelter at Combeferre's house, where there was always someone to offer a warm hug. Joan Combeferre was a matriarch among matriarchs, and she raised all six of her children to be as warm but grounded as she was. Enjolras had unofficially become the seventh.

 

Growing up too soon had taken its toll on Enjolras, in ways he didn't even realize. He was never comfortable when he wasn't in total control. He took on responsibilities that weren't his. Enjolras was a passionate man, a good man, but the emotions of others often alluded him and he never quite knew how to handle his own. _That's what I have you for,_ he'd told Combeferre once, teasingly, but Combeferre had seen the deeper truth behind the jest.

 

It had taken Enjolras a long time to realize exactly how devoted Grantaire was to him. But once he had, once he'd dropped his defenses and taken a chance, he was as passionate he was about everything else. Suddenly, the man who had no time for the trivialities of romance was madly in love. It didn't hurt that they balanced each other in all the right ways. Grantaire still drank entirely too much, but it was better than it used to be. Combeferre no longer jumped any time his friends from the hospital called, assuming it meant Grantaire had finally drank himself into alcohol poisoning. Enjolras' blind passion, which could turn to dangerous zeal when unchecked, could be reined as Grantaire played devil's advocate. Their relationship had been a long time in coming, but when it did, they clicked together like two pieces of a puzzle. Suddenly, they were whole and they were happy.

 

Enjolras wouldn't admit how badly he was taking this – though it would have been worrisome if he had. But Combeferre knew him, and he knew the undercurrent of fear in Enjolras' tone as he repeated the trite reassurances given to him by the hospital staff.

 

Combeferre checked his phone for any new messages. Finding none, he realized it had been a few hours since the last update. He didn't want to wake Enjolras if he'd finally managed to sleep, but Combeferre doubted that. Besides, when Enjolras was exhausted, it would take more than the chirp of a text message to wake him. Combeferre typed with one finger as he glanced at the departure board to make sure his flight was still on time. _At the airport. Jehan, Courf, and Bahorel are on their way. Rest of us have flights scheduled throughout the day._

 

It didn't take Enjolras long to reply. _Merci. Is all well there?_

 

Combeferre snorted. Typical Enjolras. _Of course. Paris will cope without us for a week; Taire needs us more._

 

 _Yes, he does._ After a second, another message followed. _Ferre, I'm scared._

 

Combeferre knew what it must have taken for Enjolras to admit that. He cursed the ocean between them. _I know._ He wasn't going to offer blind platitudes, but he couldn't ignore fear, either. _He's in good hands. Joly will keep a watchful eye on everything; you know that. And he has the love of a good man on his side._

 

Combeferre could picture Enjolras' hesitation, even if it hadn't been felt in the delayed response. _You really think so?_

 

Combeferre never said anything he didn't mean, but he indulged Enjolras, given the circumstances. _Absolutely. If he fights for anyone, Gabe, it will be you._

 

* * *

 

Enjolras was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but he couldn't sleep. Every time he drifted off, he snapped awake again at every alarm or unexpected noise. He'd become a permanent fixture at Grantaire's side, as apparently visitation in the ICU was allowed around the clock for family members. No one had challenged Enjolras yet - and frankly, he dared them to try. Though he was sure the patience of the staff would be tried when the _rest_ of the family showed up. To be fair, he _had_ warned them it was a rather large extended family.

 

Combeferre's texts had soothed him as much as an electronic message possibly could. Grantaire was still unconscious, still dependent on the medical technology surrounding him to stay alive, but his hand was warm and his pulse, though quick, was stable. Joly had fussed a bit, but then admitted that an elevated heart rate was to be expected, even if he didn't like it. Everything so far seemed to be within the parameters of "given the circumstances." Enjolras could accept that.

 

Cosette peeked her head in, smiling shyly. It was the first time she'd come without Marius, so Enjolras understood her hesitance, but he nodded and waved her in. She'd been there night, after all – even if it was just to support Marius, it was appreciated. " _Bonjour,_ Cosette."

 

She smiled, a little wryly. "I fail to see what's so good about it."

 

Enjolras smiled at the literal translation to English. " _Non,_ it really isn't a very good day at all. But, as Combeferre is always telling me, it could always be worse."

 

"Yes, it could be raining," Cosette agreed.

 

Enjolras looked at her blankly, having no idea what she was talking about. "Pardon?"

 

Cosette shook her head. "It's an old American comedy. I'll have to show you sometime. I haven't been able to properly gauge your sense of humor yet, but I think Grantaire would enjoy it."

 

Enjolras stroked his boyfriend's arm idly, taking what comfort he could from it. "I'm sure he will."

 

"How's he doing?" Cosette asked, venturing a step closer.

 

"No change," Enjolras said for what seemed like the thousandth time that day but was probably only the third. "I'm told at this point, that's good."

 

"I know I don't know you all very well yet," Cosette said, "but I met Grantaire last week, when we had that snow day. He struck me as a fun sort."

 

"He strikes most people that way." Enjolras nodded. "He definitely knows how to have a good time."

 

"But there was more," Cosette continued. "There was a gentle kindness. Nothing he'd dare admit to, I'm sure, but I'm good at reading people. I really was looking forward to getting know him." Seeming to realize how that sounded, she quickly added, " _Merde,_ not that – I mean, I still am. But…"

 

"It's all right; I understand." Enjolras, as much as he could be exasperated with Marius' lovesick theatrics, was definitely beginning to appreciate what Marius saw in Cosette. She was soft-spoken and sweet - and she'd managed to see through Grantaire's bluster within the first minutes of meeting him. Not everyone could do that. Granted, it did depend on his mood and how drunk he was. But Enjolras was amazed how many people wrote Grantaire off as shallow. Even when he'd been blind to love, he had known that there was far more beneath the surface when it came to Grantaire. He tended to express himself best creatively, but he was incredibly well-spoken when the situation called for it, if he trusted those around him.   And Cosette did inspire trust. "How are Marius and Joly?"

 

Cosette smiled. "When I last saw Joly, he was talking to his…I don't know, is that his boyfriend?"

 

"I'm not sure they're sure," Enjolras admitted. Bossuet was Joly's best friend, and they had been in a polyamorous relationship with Musichetta for some time. They loved each other, but whether that love had crossed the line into a true threesome, only they knew yet. It wasn't their friends' business to ask and no information had been volunteered.

 

"Marius finally fell asleep; that's why I came alone. He needs rest – as do you." Cosette raised her eyebrows at Enjolras, offering a challenge.

 

"I'm fine." Enjolras shook his head. "He needs me here."

 

"You can still sleep," Cosette told him, coaxing. "I'll keep watch for a bit."

 

"I couldn't possibly ask you to…"

 

"Who's asking?" Cosette shrugged. "I'm volunteering."

 

Enjolras sighed. If he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn Combeferre had gotten to her already. "All right, but only for a little while. Wake me in twenty minutes."

 

Cosette merely smiled, nodding. Had Enjolras been better-rested, he would have known better than to trust that smile. He woke up two hours later to find Joly flipping through the medical chart like it was light reading material.

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire was trying to piece together what had happened. He was missing several hours, and that worried him. It had been late at night, and now it was daytime. He had somehow gotten from the alleys near Greenwich Village to Central Park. There had been some altercation, and now…it was just another day.

 

"Enj?" Grantaire turned toward the blond man who stood beside him. But it was clear he'd been mistaken when the man turned. There were clear similarities, but it wasn't Enjolras. "Oh. Sorry. You're not Enjolras."

 

The man smiled, chuckling. "Oh, so you claim?"

 

"Um, yeah, I think I'd recognize my boyfriend when I see him. Or any part of his luscious body." Grantaire crossed his arms. "And you are?"

 

The man extended a hand diplomatically. "Tristan Enjolras. _Bonjour._ "

 

"Oh, that's…" Grantaire put the pieces together quickly. Tristan had been Enjolras' father. The father who'd died when he was eight. "Well, this conversation just got simultaneously awkward and creepy."

 

Tristan's smile widened. "Yes, I suppose it must be strange to have a near-death experience when you don't believe in them."  


"I'll say." Grantaire glanced at Tristan warily. "So is this the 'go back, don't go to the light' speech? Because I'm on board with that and I'd hate to waste your time."

 

"Time is no longer something that concerns me, Monsieur." Tristan sat on the nearest bench and gestured for Grantaire to join him. "You've been very good for my Gabriel, and I appreciate it."

 

"No problem _._ " Grantaire sat down, still dubious. "So, what's this magical mystery tour really about?"


	7. Not a Path for the Faint of Heart

Somehow, in a few steps, the park had become the Rue de Seine. Grantaire was already unnerved enough that it didn't make much difference. Tristan smiled warmly, looking around them. "I thought perhaps familiar surroundings might put you more at ease."

 

“Trust me, nothing's going to put me at ease under these circumstances," Grantaire countered, shaking his head. "Maybe things like this are typical for you wherever you came from, but on this planet, chatting up your boyfriend's dead father...not really in the realm of normal."

 

Tristan inclined his head, as if conceding the point. "Agreed. But, as you might say, it is what it is."

 

Grantaire still had no idea what to make of the entire situation. He had to be dreaming - he'd seen pictures of Tristan before. Not many, as Enjolras didn't like to leave reminders out in the open, but enough to have an image in his subconscious. The more Grantaire studied him, the more it was clear just how much Enjolras resembled his father, even down to the wry smile. "There is a point to all of this; I assure you."

 

“Ah, good.” Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “I'm listening.”

 

"There are fears Alexandre discusses with no one, not even you," Tristan said somberly, taking a seat on the nearest bench.

 

Grantaire joined him, frowning. "Alexandre?" As long as he had known Enjolras, the young activist had always gone by his middle name. Enjolras had mentioned once his legal first name came from Alexandre Dumas, his mother's favorite novelist, but that was the most it had ever come up. Actually, that was the most Enjolras freely discussed about his mother, too. Grantaire almost found himself hoping that Tristan could clear that up, but that would have meant this had some semblance of reality.

 

"Well, yes, it is his name." Tristan smiled fondly. "His mother chose it."

 

"Yeah, what about her, anyway?" Grantaire knew very little about his beloved's mother, and most of it came from Combeferre. After Tristan's death, she had spiraled into severe depression and hopelessness. A fate Grantaire could understand, as he was sure he would be the same if Enjolras died suddenly. As far as Grantaire knew, she had become completely unable to cope and was eventually admitted to a residential mental health center sometime in Enjolras' teen years.

 

"Diana had her difficulties," Tristan admitted, growing quiet and steepling his fingers together. "It was something I knew when I married her, but we had been able to make it work. After the incident...she wanted Alex to be all I was to her."

 

Grantaire winced. "That sounds a little creepy."

 

"No, not in any carnal sense," Tristan clarified quickly. "But I made the error of assuming I would always be her everything. She needed someone to lean on, and she was too lost in her grief to realize it was too much for a child to shoulder."

 

It actually explained a lot about Enjolras, come to think of it. And considering the man would have blamed himself for the invention of gunpowder if he got half an idea how, it was logical to assume Enjolras blamed himself for his mother's ultimate breakdown. Grantaire nodded. "So, what, did he change his name because he felt he wasn't worthy of it or something?" It sounded far-fetched as soon as he suggested it, but not entirely outside the realm of possibility.

 

" _Non_ , nothing so dramatic," Tristan explained. "When his activism gained attention, he wanted to be sure no one would trace anything to Diana, in order to protect her. It's far easier to trace a person using their first name, after all."

 

"That...actually makes sense." Grantaire shrugged. "I don't know, I always thought Gabriel suited him. The archangel…."

 

Tristan just smiled. "I'm inclined to agree.” Grantaire could only assume Tristan's easy manner was designed to make him feel comfortable. Or a product of his own mind. It was getting harder to be sure. "But, to avoid making this a much longer tale than necessary, the fact is, Alex - or Gabe, if you prefer - is as much his mother's child as mine. Her passion, he has in spades. And as much as he loves her, he deeply fears following her path of destruction."

 

"Enj? Really?" Grantaire was skeptical. Which was not unusual for him, of course, but the circumstances made it feel stranger. "He's the strongest person I know."

 

"He would be glad to know you think so." Tristan met Grantaire's eyes, the force of his gaze almost uncomfortable. "And he is strong. Stronger still since he allowed himself to love. But we often fail to see what's in front of us. And, as good as love has been to him...in his mind, love is what led to his mother's ruin."

 

Finally, Grantaire got it. "He's afraid he'll lose his shit like she did."

 

"Exactly," Tristan confirmed. "He isn't nearly as prone to melancholy as he once was, but it bubbles beneath the surface. And, just as he fears your demons might one day be too powerful and take you from him, he fears the same of himself."

 

Grantaire nodded. "So, what? Don't die? I'm all for that. When do I go back?"

 

"In due time." Tristan stood, nodding to Grantaire before he turned away. He started to walk, but then paused and looked back behind him. "But I warn you, it isn't a path suited to the faint of heart."

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras was greatly comforted by the fact that the rest of Les Amis were on their way to New York. He kept telling himself, the others needed the support...but the truth was, so did he. Combeferre was his guide, and it had been hard enough getting through the mundane without him. Courfeyrac calmed and encouraged him. They were _all_ his brothers, and he needed them desperately.

 

Joly had been dozing for awhile, but he had roused a few minutes ago and was studying the EEG patterns on Grantaire's monitor. They'd insisted it was just a precaution, because of the concussion on top of everything else, but Joly took his role as medical advisor to the Amis very seriously. "Anything, Jol?" Enjolras asked tiredly.

 

Joly's expression was interested, but not particularly alarmed. "Nothing unexpected," he reported. "But it's rather fascinating. I have no idea whether he'll remember it or not, but he hears what we're saying. There's a definite change in the REM sleep here and there - dreaming - which is good. I think, neurologically, he's clear."

 

Enjolras nodded. "And the rest?"

 

“Honestly, I have no idea.” Joly's favorite cane was absent, and his fingers twitched as if reaching for it. "He's reacting to something, but there's no telling what might be going on in his head. Probably best to let his body heal first before addressing it while he's awake. Heaven knows he's got enough troubles without - oh. _Merde_!"

 

Enjolras was instantly on alert. "What?"

 

"His medical history." Joly began to bounce, clearly anxious. "You did mention the alcohol, right?"

 

“I did.” Enjolras frowned, trying to figure out what Joly was after. "They asked me if he drank; I told them yes. I also mentioned those godawful clove cigarettes he loves, if it interests you."

 

"Hey, they smell good," Joly argued, before shaking his head. "Never mind; that's not the point. What I mean is, did you mention the fact that he's been more drunk than sober for the better part of a decade?"

 

"I didn't want them to get the wrong impression," Enjolras replied. He knew how judgmental people could be of such things - he wasn't proud to admit he'd once been that way it himself.

 

Joly rolled his eyes, standing. "I'll talk to them. Enj, the issue isn't his reputation.  Enjolras, he's been drinking hardcore since he was in his early teens.  He's going to start withdrawing soon, and in his weakened state-"

 

That, Enjolras had never even considered, and he cursed himself for it. "Is there anything-?"

 

"Yes," Joly said, patting his arm. “If they know, they can medically ease the process. It won't be nearly as dangerous or painful. I'll talk to them."

 

" _Merci_." Enjolras sighed. "I'm afraid I don't know much about this at all." He wasn't even sure what he was referring to - medicine, addiction, or relationships in general.

 

"Enjolras." Joly leaned down, looking directly into Enjolras' eyes. "Don't be stupid. You've been the best thing that ever happened to Taire. Don't ever forget that."

 

 


	8. Family is More than Blood

The rain outside the hospital window kept coming down harder, and Enjolras found himself mildly envious of it. The freedom. It was poetic in a way Jehan would have sighed happily over if Enjolras shared his thoughts, but the rain could just do what it wanted, what it needed to. Combeferre would have been happy to explain the exact science, but Enjolras' mind chased after the metaphor. The rain made him think of tears and how he wished he could just break down and cry. He didn't give a shit about masculine stereotypes; that certainly wasn't holding him back. The tears just wouldn't come. It would have been a welcome release, but he found himself every bit of the marble his friends teased him about.

 

Every time he looked at Grantaire, pale and still, he wanted to cry. Every time he realized that the last words he'd said to him that evening were. _“Don't be late.”_ It wasn't as if Enjolras didn't tell Grantaire he loved him. They exchanged those words all the time. Why couldn't that have been what he called, even distractedly, as Grantaire headed out the door?

 

Enjolras stared out the window at the rooftops of surrounding buildings, wishing it were the familiar sights of Paris he saw. He wanted to be home. The exchange program had been amazing; he'd had some incredible experiences. Until the attack, Enjolras had been enjoying it thoroughly. But now he felt totally out of his element. He had never mastered speaking English without a strong accent, which Grantaire teased him about but assured him was charming. But he didn't want to be a novelty; he didn't want people to try on his behalf to speak broken French at him. He wanted people to stop mangling his name and for someone to assure him that he wasn't going to have to return home a widower. They weren't married, but that was exactly what he would have been sans legal ties. Grantaire was his life, and though it was cliché, he had taken that entirely for granted. Grantaire wouldn't leave; he'd always be there. Enjolras had assumed that was the way things were. Until an outside force had intervened and now here they were. In the midst of a healthcare system he didn't understand. Joly could explain some of the details, but definitely not all. And that just made Enjolras' eyes burn harder with tears that would not fall.

 

He lowered his head onto the bed, on a clear spot on the mattress near Grantaire's shoulder. It wasn't the most comfortable position, but short of climbing into the bed, which surely would have been frowned upon, it was the closest he could get. He held Grantaire's hand, focusing on the warmth, the occasional twitch. Grantaire's fingers never squeezed his purposefully in return, but Enjolras could pretend for the moment. He could close his eyes and imagine the hiss of the ventilator was anything but a machine keeping the love of his life breathing while his lung healed from a knife wound. That Grantaire wasn't waking because he was exhausted from a late night, not drugged to aid his recovery and ease him through alcohol withdrawal. Enjolras knew the twitches might well be part of the withdrawal process, but he couldn't let himself focus on that. He just had to know his love was alive.

 

After what seemed like hours, Enjolras felt a hand on his shoulder. He expected it to be Marius or Joly, but he looked up into the most welcome face he could have seen. “Ferre.”

 

Combeferre didn't ask how he was or even how Grantaire was. He just pulled Enjolras into a hug, running his fingers through Enjolras' hair like he'd done when they were children and Enjolras needed comfort. Enjolras held on tightly, melting into the embrace. Combeferre always knew exactly what he needed, and he must have come straight to the hospital from the airport and he must have been exhausted. But despite all that, he'd come to Enjolras first. “I've missed you so much,” he whispered.

 

“ _Moi aussi,_ ” Combeferre replied, his grip not loosening. After a moment, he stopped stroking Enjolras' hair and simply held him, humming an old tune softly. The one they'd loved as children and comforted each other with as they'd become adults. And, finally, that broke Enjolras. It was a choked sob at first, but then he was able to relax and cry into Combeferre's shoulder, knowing Combeferre would never judge, but just hold him and let him have this release.

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn't all awkward chats with his boyfriend's dead father. Sometimes, in the moments of clarity that surfaced between disturbing dreams, Grantaire's mind took him to other places. Familiar ones. So familiar, in fact, they would have been boring if he considered them as events of the every day. Only the little things that changed, the people who joined him, made it any different.

 

This time, he was sitting on the L train on his way back from a friend's loft in Brooklyn, waiting to get back into Manhattan so he could transfer to the C train and get back home to Enjolras. They didn't have many evenings when Marius was out of the apartment all night. Just another moment in his life. Only this time, as he sat doodling on the sketchpad he always carried with him for such occasions, a woman sat down beside him and put her arm around his shoulder. “Oh, Rayne.”

 

Grantaire had startled. “Rayne” was the only version of his first name he let anyone call him, but he was very selective about who did. Technically, the Amis were allowed; they just didn't. Maybe Enjolras, a few times. But it had been a nickname given to him by his sister when they were children; she'd been learning his name and “Rayne” stuck. The only one who called him that regularly since his sister died was...the woman sitting beside him. Who was, as far as Grantaire knew, still in Paris. And definitely hadn't been on the train with him that day or any other in New York.

 

“Aimee?” Grantaire frowned. “Considering my previous visitor was, um, kind of _dead_ , forgive me if I'm not overjoyed to see you.”

 

“Well, perhaps the situation calls for a mother's touch.” Aimee Duchene was a nurse at the local hospital where Grantaire had spent too much time in the emergency department as a child. She'd reported his family several times, though they always dodged the system. Still, she fought for him, taking him under her wing, going against the rules to find him outside of the hospital and offer a safe haven. She'd been the only adult he'd trusted when he was young, and he still viewed her as a mother figure. She had adopted him in everything but legality.

 

“What are you going to do, talk me into living?” Grantaire shrugged. “Already agreed to that. I honestly don't know why I'm still here, in this...weirdness.”

 

“Maybe I'm not the one you should be asking,” Aimee offered, nudging her glasses back up her nose.

 

“Then why are you here?”

 

“It's your head, _mon petit_ ,” she reminded him. “Have you seen her?”

 

“Her?” Grantaire asked, though he knew exactly what she was getting at. When she only smiled cryptically at him, he asked, “You mean Michele?”

 

“Yes, your little flower.” Aimee smiled. She'd known Michele was the light of Grantaire's life; she'd been there when he was six and gushing about his new baby sister. And when he was thirteen and inconsolable over losing her. “Ask her.”

 

“I'd need a drink for that,” Grantaire muttered. He'd seen Michele, but glimpses of her had been fleeting. A flash of red hair, a giggle, then she was gone.

 

Aimee leveled a look at him. “That's another problem in itself, isn't it?”

 

“Hey.” Grantaire had no idea why he was so defensive. “You never ride me about my drinking when you're really here; why now?”

 

“Because some drink to remember.” Aimee kissed his cheek, standing as the train pulled into the next stop. “And some drink to forget.”

 

Grantaire shook his head. “Hey, you can't just quote 'Hotel California' at me and get off a train that doesn't even exist!” But she did exactly that. Figured. No one ever listened to him, not even in his own mind.

 

And then he heard it. A giggle. He turned.

 

Michele stood on the platform, the train clearly having no intent of moving to the next station anytime soon. “Come on, Rayne!” She giggled again and was dashing off, into the crowd.

 

This time, he followed her.

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Keep On Keeping On

Most people who knew Enjolras would have been alarmed to find him falling apart in their arms, but Combeferre was actually relieved. Enjolras tried to be so strong all the time that it stuck with him even when he knew he needed to let go. Combeferre couldn't help when Enjolras locked himself away. But he could hold him while he cried. He could whisper soft reassurances. This was far from their ideal reunion after months apart, but Combeferre was still grateful to be at Enjolras' side again. They complemented each other's strengths and balanced the weaknesses.

 

After about ten minutes, Enjolras' sobs began to fade and Combeferre shifted to hold Enjolras at his side so that he could assess the situation with Grantaire. Enjolras adjusted, curling up against Combeferre.

 

“He looks better than I expected,” Combeferre said genuinely. “His color's not bad. Pale, but I've seen worse.” With the blood loss, he'd rather expected Grantaire to be ghostly pale, but it wasn't quite that bad. The replacement fluids and blood transfusions were clearly doing their job. Grantaire looked awful compared to his normal state, but Combeferre had the perspective gained from a medical education.

 

“I've never seen him like this,” Enjolras said quietly, shifting as well so that he maintained physical contact with Combeferre but could hold Grantaire's hand again. “So still. So sick.”

 

Combeferre nodded. “I won't lie, Enjolras. He's very sick. But, as bad as it looks, it could be worse.”

 

Enjolras snorted. “Everyone says that. Not just now. For everything. 'Oh, well, look at the bright side.'” His jaw set, the sort of anger that came about him when he knew if he didn't get mad, he'd cry. “When Maman...” He broke off, shaking his head firmly, but he rarely did complete that sentence. “Where is the _bright side_ in that, really?”

 

Combeferre knew what he was referring to; they were close enough it only took those two words. His mother had attempted suicide when he was a teenager, the incident that finally led to her residential admission. Enjolras had found her. He'd saved her, but for obvious reasons, the incident had traumatized him greatly. He still hadn't dealt with it, really – he coped by refusing to acknowledge it and focus on the end result, that his mother was alive. The situation wasn't the same, as Grantaire clearly hadn't inflicted these wounds on himself, but Combeferre could see how one would stir memory of the other. Especially with the way Enjolras' mind worked. “I understand. Not everything has a higher purpose. Sometimes the only bright side is that you survived. Grantaire is alive and there's every indication he will recover.” He smiled, squeezing Enjolras' shoulder. “And when you come home, we'll take a trip to La Rochelle. I'm sure Grantaire would love to see where you grew up. And, if your mother's feeling up to it, maybe you could introduce him?” Enjolras was a very future-oriented individual, and Combeferre knew exactly how to work with that. “He'll love her.”

 

“I haven't told him about her,” Enjolras admitted, his gaze falling toward the floor. “Not everything, really. I mean, he knows where she lives, that she's got difficulties, but...” He shook his head. “I'm not ashamed of her; that's not why. I'm not.”

 

“I know you aren't,” Combeferre reassured him. “You've always tried to maintain her privacy. He'll understand. And he's had a rough life, too. I really think he'll understand more than you expect.”

 

Enjolras nodded slowly. “I guess I don't know much about his family either, to tell you the truth. I know his parents were horrible. Most of his scars, he's been more than happy to tell the story...some epic fight or narrow escape. Usually involving Bahorel.” He smiled faintly, no doubt at the memories, but it quickly faded. “There's one, though, I asked him about it, and he just shut down. I've never brought it up again. The look in his eyes was all I needed to know it must've been bad.”

 

Grantaire had never confided in Combeferre about his past either, but from what little Combeferre did know, he had to agree with that assessment. “He was definitely abused. Probably for a long time. There's a woman I know at the hospital, he's fairly close to her. He used to come by a few times a month to take her to lunch. She isn't one to tell business that isn't hers, but from the look on her face if the matter does come up, there's a lot to be angry about.”

 

“Aimee?” Enjolras asked, smiling when Combeferre nodded. “I've met her a couple of times. She seems lovely. I know Taire adores her, even if he's not the type to gush. He's stayed in touch since we've been here – other than you all, she's the only one I know that he's made an effort for. Which, with him, says a lot.” His fingers curled tighter around Grantaire's hand. “I hadn't thought of her until now. We should let her know what happened. She'd want to know, wouldn't she?”

 

Combeferre hadn't thought of it either, but he nodded. Aimee was more of a co-worker than a good friend to him, but he knew her well enough to know she was not going to be happy if she found out about this after the fact. And she was a formidable woman where anyone she'd taken under her wing was concerned. “She would definitely want to know. In fact, we'd likely be risking life and limb by _not_ telling her. Grantaire will fuss when he wakes, of course, but that's only because he wouldn't want her to worry.”

 

“He wants to protect her,” Enjolras agreed, nodding. “Believe me, I can understand that. But if my mother were more stable and something happened to me, I don't think I could really justify keeping it from her.”

 

“Agreed.” Combeferre grinned, teasing a bit. “And your mother doesn't even know twenty ways to kill someone without leaving a trace of evidence.”

 

It didn't really make Enjolras smile, but his lips twitched a bit and Combeferre would accept that. Enjolras didn't look nearly as morose as he had when Combeferre first came into the room. He was sure to be on the same emotional rollercoaster as anyone else in this situation, but Combeferre was determined to do what he could to help. As were the rest of their friends, he knew. “I'll contact Aimee in a bit. I don't have her number, but I can get a message to her through the hospital and ask her to give us a call.”

 

“Thank you.” Enjolras chewed on his bottom lip. “I have no idea where Grantaire's phone is; that's the only place I could think of to get her direct line.”

 

“We'll figure it out.” Combeferre hugged Enjolras, still grateful he could finally do it without an ocean between them. “We've always been resourceful.”

 

“That we have.” Enjolras sighed, leaning back against Combeferre and closing his eyes.

 

“Rest,” Combeferre whispered, running his fingers through Enjolras' hair.

 

“I'm not tired,” Enjolras protested weakly.

 

Combeferre pointedly ignored him, smiling and continuing to stroke Enjolras' hair. As he expected, Enjolras drifted to sleep within minutes.

 

* * *

 

 

Michele's laughter was contagious, and despite Grantaire's disorientation in his ever-changing world, he had to chuckle. He'd chased her down the train platform and up the stairs – without getting out of breath. Had any sort of logic applied to this bizarre realm, they would have been in a residential area of Brooklyn, with where he'd jumped off the train. Instead, it was Times Square, and as quickly as Michele had appeared to him, she disappeared into the crowd.

 

Grantaire searched for her, scanning the massive throng of people for a small, red-haired girl who _wasn't_ dressed up like Little Orphan Annie. He spotted a couple, but neither was Michele. It figured. While he'd been warned this journey – or whatever it was – wouldn't be easy, it seemed like whatever force was in control of it got a kick out of frustrating him. He looked around, wondering if anyone else – dead or otherwise – would show up, but no familiar faces appeared in the crowd. He was alone again.

 

And there was a Starbucks on the corner.

 

Smiling to himself, he headed into the coffee shop. While it was true that if he didn't know the rules of the game, he couldn't play it, Grantaire knew a few games of his own. And while he couldn't be sure Enjolras would show up to complain if Grantaire attempted to opt out of this weird purgatory in Starbucks, of all places, there was no guarantee he _wouldn't_.

 

Besides, in the absence of alcohol, Grantaire needed a strong cup of coffee.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your support! BTW, if you're curious, Aimee is physically modeled on Meryl Streep. :) Invisi did an excellent commission piece for me which you can find here... http://invisibleinnocence.tumblr.com/post/73180155525


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